What Hunts Me E-Book

Margaret Millmore

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

In the attic of the Watchers' large Edwardian house in San Francisco, a box is discovered.

Within the box are 100-year-old stories of ghost killers of the old. And among them, a diary, dated in 1915 and written by a young man named George Sinclair.

Strange drawings and writings in the diary tell of something sinister, and the final entry is loud and clear: George is a ghost killer, and he is being hunted. Modern-day George Sinclair knows that this discovery could be the key to his unknown heritage.

George and his friend travel to Pennsylvania to investigate. The more they learn, the clearer it becomes that something terrible happened in 1915, and it directly involved George's great-grandfather.

And now, it is happening again. As powerful supernatural forces come into play, the ghost killers are dragged into a fight for their lives.

Leseprobe

What Hunts Me

Ghost Killer Book 3

Margaret Millmore

Copyright (C) 2018 Margaret Millmore

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by CoverMint

Edited by Maxine Bringenberg 2018

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Dedicated to my mother, Marie T. McGrath-Stanley (retired Captain USAF)1929-2017You were a constant source of love, inspiration, and encouragement. Without your continuous support, I might have given up writing altogether—my only regret is that you did not live to see this story written.

Authors Note

The year was 1915, The Great War was ramping up in Europe, the RMS Lusitania had been sunk by a German U-boat, Alexander Graham Bell completed the first transcontinental telephone call between New York City and San Francisco, the Ford Model-T and silent motion pictures were all the rage. Raggedy Ann, aspirin in tablet form, and processed cheese, as well as the milk carton were invented. America was steadily growing in population, and that population was on the move. In San Francisco, the Panama-Pacific International Exposition opened in February, an event that introduced many wonders to the United States and the world at large. The Lincoln Highway (also known as Highway 30) opened as America's first transcontinental automobile road, and today, much of that highway still exists.

It was against this background that my grandfather, George H.M. McGrath, an eighteen-year-old recent high school graduate, decided to embark upon an epic adventure…he would ride his brand new truss frame Iver Johnson bicycle from Houtzdale, Pennsylvania to San Francisco, taking the newly opened Lincoln Highway. The journey would traverse over 2700 miles (some of which hadn't been completely developed roadway and was barely navigable) and take more than three months to complete. George wanted more than anything to see and witness the marvels of the Exposition, but he also wanted to see our beautiful country.

George recorded this epic journey with letters home to his father and sister. Twenty-five of the original letters have survived to this date, and are proudly housed in our family archives. The majority of the letters were written on the hotel stationery where George stayed along the way. In many instances, the letterheads tell the story of our nation's younger, less sophisticated years in regards to the conveniences we all take for granted today: “Running Hot and Cold Water,” “Telephone in Every Room,” “Rates $2.00 per Night,” “Steam Heat and Electric Lights in Every Room,” “Large Automobile Yard.”

My mother was the youngest of George's four children, and throughout my childhood she often told her father's story. I always found it fascinating, and even as a young child I thought it would make a wonderful foundation for a fictional tale; my mother agreed. When I started the Ghost Killer series, I didn't consciously name my main character George, and the fact that I'd moved to San Francisco (I grew up in Southern California), his final destination and the primary setting of the Ghost Killer series, isn't lost on me either. Perhaps it was destiny, perhaps it was my subconscious mind directing my actions…I'll probably never know for sure.

In this book, I have used my grandfather's journey as the backdrop of George Sinclair's newest adventure as a ghost killer. I've followed my grandfather's route as closely as possible based on the surviving letters. I've used many of his comments as to what he saw and experienced, and where possible, I've depicted the hotels as they still stand today. There are quite a few haunted places along this route, some of which are true tales, some of which are complete figments of my imagination. Many of the hotel buildings no longer exist; however, with the assistance of several fantastic local historical societies, libraries, and historians, I've done my best to portray them as they are today or were in 1915.

A special thank you to my cousin, Donald C. Tully, who compiled the letters into a book entitled Letters Home. This was an invaluable tool in writing this book as the majority of the surviving letters are difficult to read due to their age and the general writing style of our grandfather. Don was also a wonderful resource as he had done quite a bit of research regarding the route and the era in which our grandfather's journey took place. With his permission, I used portions of his introduction in Letters Home for my author's note.

“You Easterners don't know anything about the West at all” - George H.M. McGrath, July 5, 1915 – Leading Hotel Ratcliff stationery, Central City, Nebraska

Prologue

June 20th, 1825

The terrain only worsens as we ascend. Even as the solstice nears, the sun barely reaches this treacherous, wicked mountain. Our sirdar and sherpas become wearier by the day, more frightened as we near our destination.

We are a party of ten men and one woman, but others linger among us that the ordinary men cannot see. Heinrich and his wife Ida, both extraordinarily powerful ghost killers and longaevuses, are the benefactors of this sure-to-be ill-fated expedition. Heinrich has spent his disturbingly long life seeking out ancient artifacts designed to harness and control the supernatural forces that linger so precariously between our world and the next. Ida, a mysteriously beautiful woman, hardly speaks; she is believed to be a sorceress capable of invoking the rituals her lover needs to activate the artifacts. And I, an unknown traitor to their cause, along with my young companion, who is also a powerful ghost killer, and whose allegiances lay, like my own, with all that is good in our supernatural world.

The remaining seven of our party consist of our sirdar, Dmytro; although he originates from somewhere in the Ukraine, his knowledge of our location is extensive. We are also accompanied by six Sherpas, who Dmytro has recruited to help us traverse this Godforsaken mountain. And then there are the ghosts and demons…so many of them. They are under Heinrich's command, but I see they are desperate to haunt the mortal men we travel with. There is a hunger in their eyes, yet they obey Heinrich's directives to abstain.

In the beginning we travelled on sleds, covered in furs and woolen blankets, but as we approached the last few miles, the dogs became unruly, frightened…they could sense the evil more keenly than our human companions. We were forced to abandon them, set them free in the hope the poor creatures could make their way back to the village where we acquired them. Now Dmytro's men carry our supplies on their backs, their snowshoes sinking with the weight of their burdens. But they too are exhibiting signs of fear, and I do not think it long before they abandon us as well.

Our breath comes out in great white puffs, so much so, it is as if we travel in a great fog. Yet suddenly, as if out of nowhere, further up this dismal mountain a reddish radiance can be seen. It pulses like the heart of a ghoulish monster, and penetrates the mist that surrounds us. Heinrich's eyes glow with its reflection. He appears to me like a madman, which, of course, is what he is. Ida too is transfixed by the eerie glow. The men see the madness in Heinrich's eyes and they are frightened; they halt and begin to speak rapidly. Dmytro attempts to calm them, but I know it is of no use…I can see the terror on their faces. Although Heinrich does not know the language of these men as I do, he too can see their fear and he turns to me, orders me to calm them.

It is useless though; the men will not stay. They begin to remove their packs, taking only what they need to retreat down the mountain and the assumed safety of their village. Yet that too is useless; Heinrich commands his demon army, and one by one, the men are possessed. They will die on this mountain, not from the elements and treachery of the environment, but from the ghouls that now possess their souls.

The physical strength and stamina of a ghost killer exceeds that of a normal man by much. As such, my companion, Heinrich, Ida, and I are very capable of making the final stretch to our destination, and now that our Sherpas are possessed, they too have the strength to continue, temporarily fueled by the evil that now controls them. We trudge up the mountainside, and within the hour, we have reached a wall of ice and snow. It soars into the sky, its uppermost heights shrouded in a mist so thick its peak is indiscernible.

The light is stronger here, though still slightly muted by the rime. Heinrich orders the possessed men to scrape the snow and frost, and as they claw away, a translucent surface emerges. The light is more defined now as it flows through the wall in tendrils, bright as freshly spilled blood.

For millennia the vault and its contents have remained secreted from those that sought to harness the power within. Behind the glowing translucent wall, entrapped malevolent divinities, hungry for human souls, are imprisoned.

Heinrich orders the men to take up their picks and break through the wall. His obsession is singular and he pays no attention to Ida, myself, or my companion. I write frantically in this journal, my fingers aching in the devastating cold. As the men break through, the light brightens. Heinrich and Ida appear to grow in strength as they stand in the direct path of the Muttata's glow.

Heinrich savagely grasps Ida's hand, and together they enter the opening; the possessed men follow. My companion and I go too, but keep our distance out of fear. Our haunted sirdar lights a lantern, but there is no need…a crimson glow pulses from the stone which sits in a silver cradle atop a pedestal surrounded by quartz and placed in the center of the circular shaped cavern, bathing the chamber in an eerie light.

Heinrich and Ida approach the antediluvian artifact, and as he runs his hand over its glowing surface, his touch causes the crimson light to pulse faster, brighter, and he smiles so wickedly, a shudder runs through my entire being. He then lifts the Muttata from its pedestal and the blood-red light gains strength, pulsing stronger with each second it is in his possession. He summons Ida to his side and together they hold the Muttata, raising it above their heads as he begins to chant in an ancient tongue, and with each word the scarlet light becomes stronger as it courses from the stone and flows into Ida and Heinrich. Their eyes are now crimson pulsating orbs, their mouths obsidian darkness, and together they shudder violently. Ida speaks for the first time since this wretched journey began, her voice shrill as she cries out unintelligible words.

Still holding the stone, Heinrich orders his ghoulish army to release their victims, and as they do, the men collapse to the ground with a dull thud. The air has become thick with the ghosts and demons Heinrich has brought to this desolate place, and with a sudden chill, which reaches into the depths of my soul, I realize why they are here. They summon the ghosts and demons to them, they absorb them, and with each one, they transform. I watch in horror as images of the long dead flash across their faces, as if they are trying on a variety of masks. This infusion…absorption…causes Heinrich and Ida to convulse violently, and the Muttata falls from their grasp. As it crashes to the frozen earthen floor, the cradle expels its precious cargo and the stone shatters. Ida's face now contorts in pain, and I realize, as I believe she does, that Heinrich has incorrectly performed the ritual, opening a forbidden door that may never be closed, allowing the entrapped to cross the threshold into our world; destruction and death will most certainly follow.

The cavern begins to vibrate, the pieces of the shattered Muttata seem alive as they begin to quiver on the hard-packed earth, and as I watch in utter horror, translucent tendrils begin to snake upwards from the broken stones, and dear God, I can see the faces of horrible demons and ghouls through those tendrils. These are the demons which have been held captive by the Muttata's power for many millennia, and now they slither up the immobile bodies of Heinrich and Ida, anxious to be absorbed by them…and for a moment I wonder, who is consuming who? Are the monsters now the masters?

My companion, who had been huddled against me, was now gone. I frantically searched the cavern for him, and as my eyes return to Heinrich and Ida, I see him standing at their backs. The speed in which he moved astounds me. He now holds two daggers, and with extraordinary strength he plunges each blade deeply into Ida and Heinrich's backs, so forcefully it pierces through their abdomens, the bloody tips protruding. Heinrich and Ida's mouths open in simultaneous and soundless screams and they began to falter, each grabbing at the hilts, which are stuck so deeply in their spines. The stone fragments have ceased releasing their captives, and the youth falls to the ground and frantically gathers the pieces of the Muttata and its cradle. As he finishes his scavenging, the cavity continues to vibrate violently, and he flees as if the devil is on his tail.

The cave seems to explode then, a blinding light, an ear-shattering rumble and then blackness overtaking me. I awake sometime later, the lantern still lit. As I survey my surroundings, I am greatly saddened…the dead bodies of our sirdar and Sherpas lay all around me. The young man is gone, as are Heinrich and Ida. I am alone in this desolate place.

Chapter 1

April 2016

“And that's how it happened.” The words came out sloppy and sort of squelchy. I tried to sound sober, over-enunciating my next sentence. “That's how I killed her….”

An hour before, I'd pulled off the interstate onto the main street of a dusty little town, ironically named Flourish, population seventy-one. It was somewhere between the intersection of nothing and nowhere, but it had the two things I needed and wanted the most; a tavern and a small motel. I walked to the motel first, paid for one night, and dropped my backpack in the room, then headed straight to the tavern a few doors down, hell bent on getting drunk.

The tavern was as dusty as the town it sat in, with a dispirited décor that hadn't been updated since the mid twentieth century. I sat at the bar, paying little attention to the other patrons, of which there were few, and ordered a whiskey and beer chaser. I quickly downed the whiskey and ordered another, which I put away equally as fast as the first. Just as I was about to order my third shot, the man a few barstools down began to cough…I was pretty sure he hadn't been there when I sat down.

When the coughing fit stopped and I asked if he was okay, he turned to me and said, “Fine, just fine. But you, kid, you look like you been dragged through hell and back.” He was old and worn out, his skin leathery, a severe red scar on his neck, his hair white and sparse, but his eyes were bright and sharp and his smile was warm.

I looked into the dingy bar-back mirror and saw a haggard version of my former self in its reflection. I'm not a bad looking guy—I keep myself fit, muscled, well groomed—but today was definitely the exception; my normally neat and trim brown hair was too long and starting to curl around the edges in an unkempt manner. A long scab graced my forehead; I'd only just gotten the cut hours before, but as a ghost killer, I heal very fast, and it would be gone in another day or so. My T-shirt had blood on it, but it was dry now and mostly blended with the dark color of the shirt.

I looked into the mirror again and caught the old man's gaze, then nodded and smiled. “Yeah, that about sums it up.”

He replied by saying that he was a damn good listener, and if I was interested in talking, he'd be happy to hear what I had to say. It turned out I was interested, so I talked and drank. By the time I'd slurred my last words, the old guy had started coughing again, and when he got it under control he waved at the bartender for another round. He'd been putting bourbon away almost as fast I'd been downing whiskey, but his level of inebriation didn't hold a candle to my own.

He finally said, “That's a hell of a story, kid. I'm sorry about your friend. Maybe you should give this whole quest of yours up and go home.”

I looked at him through the bar-back mirror. His eyes had narrowed and turned an inky color. His skin looked grey, and the wrinkles appeared to slither and move. He grinned at me, his teeth darkly discolored; a front tooth was chipped to a jagged and violent point, and two others were missing. He looked like a ghoul. I shook my head to clear it and looked back at the mirror, where clear hazel eyes and a light smile on a rough and wrinkled face reflected back at me.

The old man's forehead furrowed and he asked, “You okay, kid?”

A year ago I was just a normal guy with a normal life and a normal job. But that all changed, and now I not only saw ghosts and demons that haunted people with illness, in some cases killing their victims violently, but I, George Sinclair, had the unusual gift of killing these monsters and alleviating their victims of pain and suffering. I'd encountered ghosts so strong they could possess ghost killers like myself, and I'd been an integral part in stopping a vault full of angry demons, sanctioned by Satan himself, from being unleashed on San Francisco. I'd spent the last week chasing a monster so vicious it could unleash an army of ghosts and demons, and it killed indiscriminately. What I thought I just saw in the mirror could only have been brought on by my recent experiences and the fact that I was damn good and drunk, but deep down inside my brain, something was screaming, trying to tell me to run; I just wasn't listening.

I smiled and exhaled loudly, “Yeah, but I think it's time for me to turn in.” I slid off my stool, pulled some money out, and dropped it on the bar.

The old man started to do the same, saying, “Yep, that's a good idea. I'm guessing you're staying over at the motel?” I nodded and he said, “Me too. We can walk over together.”

The town's main street was sparse, consisting of a market, the motel, and the bar, all of which ran along one side of the cracked asphalt road. The west side of the street was comprised of a dirt lot that looked onto the railroad tracks and the Truckee River below. The interstate was just beyond that, but concealed by a small hill. Traffic had been at a standstill earlier, but it sounded like it was moving now. I knew I needed to get back on the road, but what was the point? Billy was dead, and the monster I'd been chasing had gotten away, not to mention I was in no condition to drive.

There weren't any street lights either, but there was a full moon to light our way. As we exited the tavern and turned towards the motel, our shadows were outlined in moonlight before us. I had my hands in my pockets, head down in drunken despair, when I noticed my companion's shadow changing. He was no longer a hunched-over old man, he was growing, elongating, transforming into something grotesque. My drunken exhausted state slowed my reaction, and by the time I turned to him he was lunging at me, his hands like claws, his eyes that inky black color, but this time large and full of malevolence. His lips pulled back in a hungry grimace, all of the teeth rotten and jagged.

He grabbed me by the shoulders and dug in. I could feel the talon like nails breaking into my skin and scraping my collar bone, and pain reverberated through my body. Drunk or not, I was still a ghost killer and still damn strong. Raising my arms up and out, I broke free, but not before he tore a chunk of skin and T-shirt off my shoulder. I flipped out of reach and started to run, but he was fast and on me in a matter of seconds, landing solidly on my back, and then I was face down in the dirt of the vacant lot across from the tavern and the motel. He grabbed me by the hair, and the next thing I knew my head was slammed to the ground, over and over again. Blood trickled into my eyes and then nothing, just blackness….

Chapter 2

Twelve days before….

“Are you kidding?!” Billy hissed.

I glanced her way. She was in the middle of several ghosts, not too powerful, but plentiful, and somewhere along the way she'd lost her chopstick and was stabbing the ghosts barehanded, which hurts like hell since ghosts and demons emit an electroplasmic shock when you touch them. I could tell from the shrillness of her voice and her expression that she was getting some pretty good jolts. We were currently engaged in a ghostly and human battle at Schofield Barracks Army Base on the beautiful island of Oahu. Two soldiers were now advancing on Billy, and were unfortunately quite possessed. I sprinted to her, grabbing her by the waist and lifting her out of the way before the first of the two men, a corporal, could get to her. She started to use her un-lady-like words, but then noticed the guy was holding an old, but sharp bayonet, and it was aimed right at her gut. She grumbled a thanks and reached for another chopstick, which she assumed was in her back pocket; no luck though, she was all out. I pulled two of my five remaining yellow number two pencils from my pocket and handed them to her, then I lunged at the man with the blade, taking him down at the waist and stabbing his nasty demon, a World War II navy ensign, at the same time. The victim promptly fainted (they always do) when the ghostly veteran that haunted him disappeared into a swirling grey mist.

Billy was making her way to the other man, a staff sergeant. I wasn't sure what specific ailment plagued the man, but based on the ominous green puss leaking from his eyes and nose, not to mention the milky white foam around his mouth, I guessed it was pretty nasty. All of which was courtesy of a rather mean 1950s ghost. The ghost had managed—in the soldier's weakened state—to possess him, and as such was using the soldier's well-honed fighting skills to pummel our local ghost killing companion, Alika Kekoa. Billy stabbed the ghost, who then faded away into that all-too-familiar grey mist as the staff sergeant fainted.

Alika and Billy turned in unison and headed toward the commissary, where we knew the ghost infestation was at its most prevalent. I finished off a demon that was possessing another soldier, an officer this time, and joined them in the building. By the time I got there, there wasn't much to do. Bewildered army personnel, civilian shoppers and employees, and a lot of grey mist greeted me. Fortunately for the victims, they wouldn't remember being haunted, thus they wouldn't remember being ill, thus our intrusion into their lives needed some quick explaining. Alika smiled broadly, proclaimed to be lost, and inquired about directions off the base.

When my ghost killing abilities had first surfaced, they were quickly followed by the introduction of some very interesting people; some good, some bad. Billy Wilkinson was one of the good ones, but her estranged and deranged grandfather, Frederick Vokkel, was definitely on the bad end. He'd managed to call in a large surge of ghosts and demons; odd, because he couldn't actually communicate or see the ghosts and demons; and even odder, because ghosts and demons don't like to work in packs…they're strictly solo operators. Billy killed Vokkel, but since that time we'd been seeing more and more surges, groups of all levels of ghosts and demons working in unison. These weren't everyday occurrences, but they were becoming common enough.

Alika was a native and resident of Maui, and born to a long line of ghost killers. His name at birth was Joseph, but when he began to show his ability to see and kill ghosts, his father renamed him Alika, which meant “guardian” in Hawaiian. It was a perfectly appropriate name for him, since that was basically what he did…he guarded the Sandwich Islands from ghosts and demons. But sometimes, like most mid-level ghost killers, he needed an extra hand.

When this particular infestation started he did his best to keep it under control, but when the nasty demons started showing up, he called the Watchers. The Watchers are a global group of people, some ghost killers themselves, others just ordinary folks, that are aware of our unordinary situation. Their primary purpose is to protect ghost killers from those that want to harness our power, but they also keep tabs on everything that goes on in the supernatural world of ghosts and demons. If an infestation crops up and can't be handled locally, they will send in reinforcements, such as Billy and me. The guy in charge of most of the U.S. is Aris Galanos, and like Billy and me, he lives in San Francisco. He's also a respected friend, not to mention he's kind of our boss, although Billy would never admit that.

There aren't many of us…perhaps ten-thousand, give-or-take, worldwide. Unfortunately, the ghost and demon population is much larger, and that means most ghost killers are constantly on the move, trying to keep them in check. Ghosts and demons come in different levels of power; the older they are, the stronger they are, and most ghost killers are low to mid-level in their abilities. But a few, like Billy and I, are exceptionally strong, and when a situation like the one we just experienced arises, we're called in to handle it.

As we walked to Alika's car, I announced, “Well now, that was fun!”

Billy grumbled. She was in a wicked mood, which wasn't really all that unusual for her, especially since we'd been going non-stop for months with little-to-no break. Her general disposition was abrasive and hard. She had a right to be that way; she'd been betrayed by her mother, her grandfather, and some people she thought were her friends. Until last year, she'd led a nomadic existence, travelling the world alone, killing ghosts and demons. Things were different now…well, not in the sense that she still travelled a great deal, but she had friends and family now, people that loved her and wanted her around. I spent a lot of time making fun of her attitude, but it was all in jest and she knew it. I think it actually softened her up a bit. But she needed a vacation; we both did.

I jabbed her gently in the side and said, “Come on, Billy. We're in paradise and the job is done. Cheer up!”

For most people the island of Oahu is full of natural wonders, beautiful beaches, and rich historical sites. But for Billy and me, it's ghosts and demons, and if we're lucky a Mai Tai or two. So far, we'd had plenty of the first two and none of the third, but that was soon to change. It was all arranged, courtesy of yours truly.

“Ah, he's right malihini, let's go celebrate.”

Alika drove us back to our hotel in Waikiki. In the lobby Billy announced the need for the restroom, and I filled Alika in on my plan. When we'd gotten the call to come to the island, I immediately went to Aris and declared it vacation time. I told him I'd be arranging for Billy's boyfriend, Mike, to come over and join her. I knew the job would only take a day at the most, but told Billy we'd be staying at least three days, so she'd pack a few extra things. Once Mike made the scene I'd skip town, back to San Francisco. I needed a vacation too, and I had the perfect one lined up.

Per my plan, Mike had already arrived and was on his way to the hotel. I texted him and told him to stay out of sight for the next hour. When Billy returned from the restroom, Alika informed her he'd be taking us both to dinner, and then shooed us off to our rooms to clean-up.

Forty-five minutes later I was sitting at a table in the lounge with Alika when Billy stepped off the elevator. She's a natural beauty; even if her brazen personality sometimes overshadows that beauty, she still turns heads. Her long, jet-black hair hung in waves, and her pale smooth skin shone with the freshness of her recent shower. But it was her eyes that caught most peoples' attention. They were a piercing green color, and she had the wicked ability to use those optical beauties like a weapon. An especially focused glare could mean impending danger to the recipient; it was unsettling, and had sent many a stronger man into a state of panic. The sundress she wore bared her shoulders and showed off her long legs. At five-foot-eight, she had the figure of a well-trained triathlete. Every man in the lounge turned to look at her, those eyes slicing each one in half as she scanned the room for us.

She sauntered over and sat, grumbling something under her breath, probably about all the unwanted attention she'd garnered from the male patrons. She just didn't realize how pretty she was. We ordered drinks and my phone let out a whistle, alerting me to a new text. I glanced at it; it was Mike, letting me know he had arrived.

Billy gave my phone a spectacularly evil look and snarled. “Do not tell me that's Aris.”

I smiled. “Nope.”

Billy's chair faced the main lounge and lobby area, and her expression suddenly changed from a scowl to surprise, her eyes narrowed, “What the…?” Obviously, she'd caught sight of Mike as he'd entered the lounge.

Mike had been my college roommate, and I'd introduced the two. He and Billy had been casually dating for the last few months, a relationship that had us all in shock, but seemed to be blooming. To be honest, I hadn't thought it would work, but I was very happy she'd found someone that was willing to not only put up with her less than shining personality, but do it on a romantic level.

She stood as Mike approached our table, and asked, “What are you doing here?”

He pulled her close and kissed her cheek, then hooked a thumb over his shoulder in my direction. “It was all that guy's idea.” He looked her up and down. “You look amazing.”

A slight blush rushed up her cheeks, then she leaned around Mike and attempted to give me a dirty look, but instead of that deadly green glare, it came off soft.

I smiled and stood up. “Well, that's our cue to leave. You're officially on vacation for the next week. See you later.” Alika and I began to walk towards the lobby.

Her tone was sharp. “George!” I turned back to her; her lips were slightly upturned in a smile. “Thanks.” I tipped her a two-fingered salute and we left them.

On the drive to the airport, Alika said, “That was a pretty nice thing you did for her, brah.” Much to my surprise, especially considering our rocky start, Billy and I had become close friends, and I enjoyed seeing her happy. I'm a nice guy that way.

Chapter 3

My flight from Oahu had arrived late the night before, and I wanted nothing more than to sleep-in, something I was denied by the annoyance of my relentlessly ringing cell phone. It was Phil James.

Phil and I had met a little over a year ago. When the ghosts first appeared to me, I needed to find out what was happening and why. My research led me to a ghost tour that was conducted four nights a week in Lower Pacific Heights, and guaranteed the patrons they'd see or at least experience a ghost. Phil owned the business, and after the tour we talked. He had figured out what I was, because there was indeed a ghost on his tour and I saw it and he knew it. Although Phil couldn't see ghosts—well, he'd seen one or two, but he couldn't do it regularly—he was well versed on them and what they did. Moreover, he was well aware of the ghost killers and the Watchers. He helped me a great deal back then, and now he helped the Watchers. He'd also become a good friend.

After he'd rung me for the third time, I finally answered. I was grouchy; Phil didn't care.

“Hey man, how are you?” Phil's cheerful demeanor tended to be contagious, even when the recipients were exhausted.

I lightened up and yawned. “Good. Sleepy still. What's up?”

“Well, I thought we could grab a beer or two at the old haunt, catch up on things, you know?”

I glanced at my bedside clock. It was almost 11 a.m., probably time to get up anyway. “Yeah sure. But I got in late and I need to do some things around the house. How about I meet you there around 3:30 this afternoon?”

I spent the next few hours doing laundry, sorting through mail, and getting myself presentable, then I went next door to visit my much loved neighbor and Billy's aunt, Justine Wilkinson. Justine and I share the top floor of an art deco building in Pacific Heights. There's one other occupied apartment on the floor as well, but she's an elderly lady we rarely see. The building was originally an apartment building, and was converted to condos sometime in the 1950s. Justine's wealthy father purchased not one, but three units for her, and consolidated them into one apartment. Hers was by far the largest and most luxurious unit in the building.

As usual, Margie, Justine's companion, chef, and sometimes chauffeur, and a retired ghost killer, answered the door when I knocked. She's a tall, sturdy woman in her mid-fifties, with salt and pepper shoulder length hair that is always neatly pulled back. Her apparel never changed; khaki pants and polo shirts, she wore them like a uniform. She's very protective of Justine, and that made her A-Okay in my book.

“Hello, George,” she said with a slight smile. “Welcome home.”

“Hi Margie, how's things?”

She gave me a quick rundown, which mostly consisted of Justine's recent activities, but not much of her own. Margie wasn't too interested in a personal life…she just wanted a quiet existence after years of coast to coast ghost killing. I'd been encouraging her to join a softball league for months now. She's a huge baseball fan, and I even invited her to play on my league. Much to my delight, she informed she'd finally done just that. I was pleased and her smile, which brightened when she described her new teammates, told me she was also pleased.

“Justine's on the terrace; go on out and I'll bring coffee.”

Justine was reading something on her iPad, and looked up when I stepped through the French doors. “George, dear.” She reached out with her hand, and I took it and leaned down to kiss her well powdered cheek. Justine is in her eighties, but one would be hard-pressed to believe she's a day over sixty-five. She's aged beautifully, and would probably out live us all.

Taking the chair nearest her, and still holding her hand, I asked, “How are you, Justine?”

She smiled. “Oh, wonderful dear, as usual,” she winked mischievously. Justine is excessively wealthy, and donates a great deal of money and time to many different causes. She also chairs at least a dozen charitable committees, and is constantly shaking things up to be sure the money is spent wisely and not wasted on shindigs and bashes (her words, not mine) that don't actually benefit the needy. Her mischievous wink and grin probably meant she'd been upsetting the social/charitable entertainment circles of her peers.

“I received a call from Billy this morning. She was….” Justine paused, a smile gracing her lips. “Uncharacteristically cheerful.” Her eyes brightened and she patted my hand. “That was a lovely thing you did for her, dear.”

I gave her a modest shrug. “To be honest, it was partially selfish too.” Her eyebrows rose curiously and I grinned. “We both need a vacation. So by putting her on leave, I'm free to take one too.”

“Ah, bravo George! Where do you plan on going?”

“Remember I told you about the letters and diary Phil found in the Lincoln Way attic?”

The Lincoln Way house was a large, old Edwardian, located across from Golden Gate Park in the Sunset District of the city. It was used for housing visiting ghost killers, training new ghost killers, and more recently, it was the location of Phil's sanctum, which was his term for the large and mostly unused living room he'd converted into a library of sorts. He'd spent the last several months contacting other Watcher groups around the country, and world, in the hopes of collecting and centralizing all the diaries, journals, and other missives written by those from our worldwide supernatural community. There's only one other location similar to what Phil was creating. It was in London, though, and apparently it was filled to capacity, so the Watchers were more than happy to allow Phil to gather what they couldn't and create an additional archive.

I'd only briefly mentioned the find to her, but I hadn't gotten around to giving her the details.

She nodded. “I do recall. However, I do not recall the contents. Remind me if you would, dear.”

The box Phil had found in the attic contained a number of letters dated in the summer of 1915, a diary of sorts, and a few old photographs. Not an unusual find, as the Lincoln Way house had been in the Watchers' hands for almost a hundred years, and many ghost killers had come through its doors, some leaving behind their diaries and other correspondence. What was unusual was the author of the letters and the diary, and the pictures. The author's name was George Sinclair, and my father bore a striking resemblance to the man in the pictures.

My paternal grandfather had been adopted by a nice childless couple back in the 1920s. No information was available as to where he'd been born or who his birth parents were, though. His name was John George Sinclair, and I was named (partly, at least) after him. The diary was a montage of sketches, some mysterious writings, and a few photographs. The last entry was a bit cryptic, but it also indicated that this man was not only a ghost killer, but he was being hunted by someone or something. And more importantly, he wrote that he had a son, who he needed to hide from those that were hunting him. Ghost killing is genetic, and I'm one of the most powerful ghost killers to have been born in a very long time. My mother was also a powerful ghost killer, but no one on my father's side—that we knew of—had displayed any ability, so we had to assume it went back further, to my unknown genetic great-grandparents. Phil thought this find was a direct clue to that unknown lineage. The letters were all posted to an address in Houtzdale, Pennsylvania, a place I'd never heard of.

After explaining all this to Justine, she looked thoughtful. Before she could respond, Margie arrived with a tray, and poured coffee for both of us before retreating back through the French doors.

Justine asked, “I assume you plan on exploring the origin of these letters?”

I nodded. “Yep. I'm taking Phil with me. After all, he found them, and he eats this kind of stuff up. I told him my plans before we left for Oahu, and knowing him, he's probably already done a ton of research.”

Justine smiled. She knew Phil too, and nodded her head in agreement. “Tell me about the diary and the letters, dear. What exactly do they contain?”

I explained that the letters appeared to be a chronological account of a bicycle trip 1915 George took from Pennsylvania to San Francisco. The diary was odd though; what little writing there was, was for the most part nonsensical, and it had been damaged by moisture at some point, so some of the entries were illegible. Other pages contained drawings, well done and detailed, but mysterious and unidentifiable. One recurring drawing was a face, part human, part monster. The human portion was different in each drawing, but the monster portion appeared to be the same creature, just with a different human counterpart. The last entry was the most coherent. Young George wrote that he was being hunted by evil men and their demons, and that part screamed ghost killer. He also wrote that he had a child, and in order to keep him safe, he gave him to his cousin Charles.

She only nodded in response and sipped her coffee thoughtfully. “You said the letters were posted to a Pennsylvania address. I wonder how they made their way to San Francisco,” she pondered. It was something I wondered too.

Justine and I chatted for another half-an-hour, then I took my leave to meet Phil.

Chapter 4

The old haunt was really called Seymour's, a Victorian themed bar where I'd first gotten to know Phil. From that point on, it had become our local watering hole and informal debriefing station. Phil referred to it as the “old haunt,” pun intended, because of what we usually discussed there…ghosts. I arrived first and took up residence in our usual booth towards the back of the bar.

A few minutes later Phil sauntered through the door, stopping at the bar to order a beer, then made his way over to the table, removing his heavy top coat and hanging it on the ornate hook behind the booth. Phil's in his mid-forties and is a tall guy, towering over me by more than an inch, which would put him in the six-foot-three neighborhood. He has large expressive eyes that appear to protrude from their sockets when he speaks passionately, which is often. His hair hangs in frizzy curls almost to his shoulders, and his beard and mustache are always neatly trimmed. His apparel consists of a few constants; he always wears a hat of some sort, a vest with a silver pocket watch tucked into the left pocket, jeans, and biker boots. He has an energetic personality that some might mistake for hyperactive, or at the very least enthusiastic about everything…good or bad.

“Hey man, good to see you!” His smile was wide and welcoming. He shook my hand vigorously, as if it had been months since we'd last seen each other; it had been less than a week. “How are you? How was Hawaii? Did Billy like her surprise?”

I laughed and shook my head; his habit of hitting you with rapid-fire questions always amused me.

“I'm good. Hawaii was good, too short though. Billy was quite pleased. How are you?”

Phil laughed heartily, making his hat of the day (a brown felt bowler with a happy face pin stuck in the silk band) bounce on his head along with his wildly curly hair.

“So, tell me everything.” He pulled his phone out and opened the recorder app, ready to document the details of our latest battle. As I mentioned earlier, most ghost killers are diarists; Billy and I are not. But no one need worry that our adventures wouldn't be memorialized in the supernatural annals of history. Phil was keeping a journal of our every move, and he'd made a regular habit of interrogating and recording us, all of which he transcribed onto his computer later.

I shrugged. “Nothing special. We flew in, polished off some ghosts and demons, left a slew of soldiers in complete confusion, then hit the hotel bar for a drink.”

He shook his head in mock dismay, curls flying riotously, and twirled his hand around. “Details, my friend, details.”

I leaned forward, speaking toward his phone, and laid out the particulars of our latest skirmish. By the time I'd finished, we'd both downed our beers and Phil signaled the bartender, Ed, for another round. While we waited I looked around the bar, taking in its restored Victorian beauty, my eyes finally settling on the far corner. Sadness seeped in fast and furiously. That particular corner was where I'd first seen GG…her real name was Amelia, but we didn't know that initially. She had been a ghost when I knew her, and a ghost when she'd befriended my mother. She hadn't been haunting the place or anyone in it; she was a good ghost, and although it was probably all in my head, I could still feel her residual presence, making Phil's moniker for Seymour's all the more poignant. I'd had to vanquish her…it was her decision, but I still missed her, mourned for her.

Phil was snapping his fingers at me, “Earth to George!”

“Huh,” I said dumbly. I hadn't been paying attention to what he'd been saying.

“Dude, this trip to Pennsylvania. Let's nail down the details and get out of here, before Aris comes up with some catastrophic demon infestation and whisks you away somewhere.”

Ed delivered the new beers and we ordered burgers and fries and discussed our impending journey. As I suspected, Phil had already done some research on the town the letters had been addressed to, in the hopes of finding information on 1915 George Sinclair.

“While you were off slaying the enemy in paradise, I did some checking on the addressee on the letters. 1915 George sent them all to a man in Houtzdale, Pennsylvania…his father, I assume. I started off by contacting the local library in Houtzdale. They don't have a historical society or anything, so I figured the library might have some information on the population over the last century, and they did. Nice lady there told me they had all the previous yearbooks, and they've been keeping these informal census books too. She wouldn't do the legwork for us, but she said we were more than welcome to come by and take a look ourselves.”

Chapter 5

Two days later, Phil and I landed in State College, Pennsylvania, which was the nearest airport to our final destination, and from there we drove into Houtzdale, a borough in Clearfield County. It was evening by the time we arrived. The quaint downtown was picturesque and the epitome of beautiful small town life, its only distraction a construction crane looming just outside the downtown area. We made our way to the only B&B, which fortunately had a double occupancy room available. Since we'd gotten into town in the evening, we found a diner, had something to eat, and turned in early. Our plan was to hit the library first thing in the morning.

The local library was a relatively new building—the borough having been too small to support one previously—but was fortunate enough to have a citizen whose lifelong goal was to create a full service library for the locals. When we entered, the librarian was overwhelmed by a group of school-age children and was unable to assist us, so instead she quickly directed us to the yearbook and town history sections.

I pulled the Houtzdale High School yearbook for 1915, and low and behold, there was the senior graduation picture of George Sinclair. My dad really did look like this guy, especially at that age. I flipped through the yearbook, looking for anything else relating to 1915 George, and found a picture of him holding a baseball mitt, his arm draped over the shoulder of another young man who was holding a well-used bat. According to the caption it was Jimmy Bets, George's best friend.

Phil had gone over to the town history section to look at the census books. He whispered, “Psst, George! George!” I looked over at him; he was waving frantically for me to join him. I shelved the yearbook and wandered over to a table on the far wall, where he had several ledgers spread out.

“Check this out.” He pointed to an old ledger he had open on the desk. The year 1900 was typed neatly at the top of the page, followed by three vertical columns entitled: Family Name, Address, and Household Information. He followed the first column until he reached the “S's” and then pointed at the name Sinclair. A street address was listed in the next column, and in the third column it noted that Henry Sinclair, a widow, and his two children, George and Lydia, had moved to town March of 1900. A side note stated that 1915 George's mother had been killed in a horse and carriage accident in January of 1899.

The census data had been collected on a quinquennial basis and recorded in December of those quinquennial years, each ledger holding twenty-five years' worth of information. Phil flipped to 1905 and 1910 respectively, discovered nothing had changed with the family's status, and continued on to the 1915 section. It had updated the ages of the children, and noted that 1915 George had moved out of the family home and the town in August of that year. Phil continued to the 1920 section. An additional column had been added to this section, titled “Extended Family,” and the Sinclair family slot listed “none.”

“If they didn't have any extended family, then I guess it's a dead end,” I conceded. That was disappointing…I was really hoping to find a definitive connection to 1915 George and the man that had adopted my grandfather.

“Don't get all down and out, check this out.” Phil had another ledger open, and he pulled it forward. This one was dated 1925 to 1945. He flipped the pages until he reached the “S's” for the year 1925. Henry and Lydia were listed as still living in the same house, but George was listed as having died in 1921. He would have been only twenty-four. Phil continued flipping through the ledgers, discovering the death of 1915 George's father, the marriage of George's sister Lydia, and the births of her two children. Further investigation showed that Lydia's husband died in 1952, her son died in 1988, and she followed shortly thereafter. Lydia's daughter, Angie, however, appeared to still live in the original family home as recently as 2015, which was the last time the census was recorded.

“Maybe she's still there and we can go talk to her…maybe she knows something about her uncle. There's something else too; the population of Houtzdale took a steep dive in 1915. There were almost fifteen-hundred residents in the beginning of the year, but if you look at the family information column, a lot of people died that year, and more specifically they died from April to June 1915, then it stopped. What if the town had a ghost problem in that time period, and George killed them all?”

“Okay, that's possible.”

Phil stood up. “Let's go see what the librarian might know about these mysterious deaths, and we'll ask her about George too.”

“Why would she know anything about George? Besides, if she did know anything, wouldn't she have said something when you first talked to her?”

Phil sighed in exasperation, like I should already know the answer. Sometimes Phil forgets to share things, which often leaves the rest of us in the dark.

“Okay, first, the woman I spoke to on the phone had a youthful voice, so I'm pretty sure our septuagenarian librarian isn't her. Second, this is a small town, and small town people tend to know a lot about each other. So there's a good chance she knows the family and their history!”

I'd forgotten that Phil had grown up in a small town, so naturally he'd know something about the social inner-workings of small towns, whereas I'd had somewhere around a hundred-thousand neighbors growing up, and we barely knew the people down the block.

He closed up the ledgers and returned them to their shelves, then we went in search of the librarian.

The children had dispersed and the librarian was alone at the desk. She introduced herself as Mrs. Golrith, and proudly informed us that she was born and raised in Houtzdale, emphatically declaring she loved every minute of it and would never live anywhere else. She was the quintessential elderly grandmother type, complete with flowered dress, matching sweater, support hose, and sensible shoes. Her hair was silver, short, and tightly permed into perfect curls, and her grey-blue eyes were bright and vibrant behind her rimless bifocals.

“Well, I can't say I know too much about the plague or whatever it was that happened in those days.” Her hand fluttered in dismissal. “I'm not that old, you know,” she winked mischievously. “But Bartholomew over at the newspaper can probably help you. His family has owned and operated the Houtzdale Standard since it first came out, which was sometime in the late 1800s, I believe. His daddy was very involved in the town goings-on, and if I recall correctly, he recorded just about everything that happened, newsworthy or not. And I'm supposing that a bunch of folk dying off in such a short time period was probably pretty newsworthy.

“Now, as far as this Sinclair boy is concerned, again, I wouldn't have known him. But I knew Lydia's daughter…Lydia was his sister, you know.” We both nodded and she continued. “Well now, Angie, that's Lydia's daughter, she passed away just last week.” Mrs. Golrith's smile faltered and her eyes misted up as she made the sign of the cross. “God bless her soul.” She took a deep breath, then continued. “But her friend, Hope, is still in the house. They moved in together back in….” She paused and tapped her index finger against her chin. “Oh, I think it must have been 'round 1990 or so. They'd both lost their husbands and had been the best of friends, so they decided to consolidate costs and become roommates. Angie inherited the family home, so that's where they lived. Maybe Hope can tell you something.”

We thanked Mrs. Golrith and headed back to Hannah Street, where the newspaper had its office. It was lunch time and I was starving, so we decided to stop at a nearby cafe first.

Phil had brought the diary in with him, and was scanning the few photographs to see if any had been taken in Houtzdale. It had been over a hundred years, though, and places changed—a lot. When the waitress stopped to take our order she glanced down at the book, looked up, then glanced back at it, focusing on the open pages. One held a photograph of two men standing on a sidewalk; their clothing indicated it was taken in the early part of the twentieth century.

When she looked up again, she blushed lightly. “Sorry, didn't mean to pry, but that man…,” she pointed to one of two men, “I think he was in here just last week.” Her forehead wrinkled. “But that photo looks really old.”

I didn't know who the man was, but I knew something she didn't…I knew about the longaevuses. And if the man in a hundred year old photograph was in her diner just last week, that's most likely what he was. Longaevus means “long life” in Latin, but in our world the term is used to describe a type of person…usually they're good, but not always. They are the result of a supernatural confluence of events involving a powerful demon, its victim, a powerful ghost killer, and perfect timing. If a ghost killer kills a demon at the same moment its killing its victim, the victim doesn't die, causing a third reaction, thus the confluence. Instead, the victim absorbs some of the demon's power and a little of the ghost killer's power too, which in turn gives them a great deal of physical strength and allows them to live a long, long time with very little aging. The only problem was, longaevuses did age, just slowly, and if the man in the diary photo still looked the same, over a hundred years later, I wasn't so sure we were dealing with an ordinary longaevus.

Phil glanced at me, then smiled at the waitress and closed the book, saying, “You said he was in last week? Did you catch his name?”

She was thoughtful for a moment. “No, can't say I did. He was an odd fellow, didn't talk much, didn't smile once, and to be honest, he sort of gave me the creeps.” She looked a little embarrassed.

Phil smiled reassuringly and gave her one of his toothy grins. “Do you know if he's still in town?”

“Haven't seen him. I do remember him asking for directions though…let's see….” She stared upward as if the answer was written on the tin ceiling tiles, then snapped her fingers. “Right…he wanted to know where Clara Street was.”

After she left to fill our orders, I leaned in and in a low voice, said, “That's the street Angie Sinclair lived on.”

“Yeah, and she died suddenly just last week?” Phil's eyes bulged dangerously.

Chapter 6

After lunch we walked up a block until we reached the Houtzdale Standard office, an unremarkable two-story brick building with large windows facing the street. When we opened the front door, an old bell hanging above announced our arrival. Two ancient oak desks flanked either side of the large open space, while a wall of equally ancient filing cabinets and a newer scanner/copier sat against one wall. A glass window graced the back wall, and beyond that, we could see an old printing press. As we moved further into the space, the faint hint of machine oil and dust wafted in our direction. On one desk sat an old black manual typewriter, a green-shaded brass lamp, and piles of folders and papers. The other desk was devoid of debris and held only a plasma monitor and keyboard.